


Tearing the Faerytale

by Ducks_Go_Eyup



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Past Character Death, Post-Series, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 08:10:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks_Go_Eyup/pseuds/Ducks_Go_Eyup
Summary: Sansa's fate was never to follow her heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the wonderful [SecondStarOnTheLeft's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft) entire body of Sansa/Willas fic

Sansa first sees him on her wedding day.

She casts a glance at him as she walks with a spine of iron down the aisle, her brother (cousin) by her side, as she casts a glance at most who she is led past. She marks the gently curling hair and the honeyed eyes, and spares a thought for the thrice widowed woman who consigned herself to the towers of Highgarden, another Mad Maid, rather than be paraded about as a political pawn. But that is all the thought she gives him, for today is her wedding day and _by the Seven_ she should be happy.

Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name, is everything she might have dreamed of once, tall, with eyes a stern not-indigo and hair as absurdly white as the cloaks of the Kingsguard. But she does not have high hopes for this marriage. She is as much as a prisoner now as she was when she was just a girl, but at least she had been able to negotiate the terms of her cage. Jon, sweet Jon, with a face as kind as father's, squeezes her hand as he leaves her before the altar of the Mother and the Father. She does not miss the warning glance he casts to his brother. She does not miss the disgruntled narrowing of her husband-to-be's eyes, she notes that as well.

\----------------------------

She sees him again at the wedding feast (a less ostentatious affair than her husband might have hoped- that was one of her concessions, for they were not Lannisters and she would not suffer to be reminded of the day Joffrey Waters died) as he approaches to offer his congratulations. He hobbles with the support of his wife, some Tarly girl going by the resemblance to Jon's beloved Maester Samwell, and she takes her role as crutch as graciously as a woman may. 

In the back of her mind, she is aware that their marriage was one organised by the crown as well; Lord Willas Tyrell is as much a hostage as she is.

His voice is soft, a librarian's voice, and she can barely hear him over the din of the musicians. He is pretty in the same way as Loras and Margaery despite his close cropped beard and a moustache his father would have been proud of, but he looks less eager to smile than the siblings that she knew. She recognises the shadow of grief in his eyes from her morning mirror.

She thanks him demurely, with a dip of her head and the twist of her lips. Her husband less so, raising his cup and draining the contents in thanks.

\----------------------------

Willas sees her at court a week after her wedding, and the first thing he notices is that she is remaining stubbornly Northern. Despite the warmer climate of the south (though he himself finds it a bit chilly compared to his home) she retains the northern cuts of her dresses, using lighter fabrics in the sobered colours of the houses she once found herself at the head of. Greys and whites, blues pale and dark and rusted burgundy. Not that he paid fashion much mind, but his Lady has been begging him to let her follow the new courtly fashion, all high necks and deep backs, laced sleeves and long flowing cloaks that flutter with every movement. He relents. He is more concerned by the Queen's hair, falling in loose waves and barely styled, the only ornament the crown that is held in place by a few slim twists. The red is stunning, bright against her somber colours, and he feels an odd sort of hollowness. If half of Grandmother's schemes _(Gods rest her wizened soul)_ had worked out, they would have been married. 

But the creature put on the platter then was a child, a fragile hostage with no political clout besides a good last name. The woman who is his Queen led the troops of the Vale and liberated the Riverlands, she usurped the Boltons and brought her homeland to peace.

The crown she wears is a confection of silver and iron, and he thinks that it is a jewel that she has earned a thousand times over. The Targaryens only brought her to heel because she could not stand any more war, it is said, and even then they had to concede her Northern influence, as sure as the iron in her crown.

\----------------------------

The Queensguard, as those at court have begun to call them, are as different as night and day. He remembers Brienne, tall and bulky with hair as coarse and yellow as sand, who swore a vow to the Queen's long-departed mother. He had never met the Lady Arya, a short and slight thing who hides a slender blade underneath her skirts, as silent as a shadow. The pair rarely leave the Queen's side, refuse to pass her into the protection of the Kingsguard. It is a surprise when the darker of the two approaches him, quite unbidden, carrying the message that the Queen requests an audience.

\----------------------------  
She wants to talk of family, and he wonders where he has seen that look in those deep blue eyes before.

He speaks of Loras, who died a cruel death for someone so radiant, and Sansa nods in agreement as she lowers her gaze to her lap.

She speaks of Robb, betrayed in a way that turned his stomach with its cruelty, and he offers what little sympathy he can.

He speaks of Father, of how he was delivered news of his execution. Then he curses himself because _of course_ , the Queen saw her own father executed without the feathers of a raven to cushion the blow.

She whispers of Arya, alive but broken, drifting between her sister and a hollow shell.

He murmurs of Margaery, that their sisters are more similar than they would care to admit.

They part, and he realises where he has seen that look before.

\----------------------------

The new Lady Tyrell reveals her pregnancy to the court a moon's turn after her own, and so Sansa takes her into her circle of ladies. Aegon praises the political move, tying the Tyrells to the throne in a friendship that goes beyond the staunch loyalty of Lord Tyrell's goodfather. Sansa never thought of the political implications, she just wants some company that isn't related to her husband. 

She and the Lady have little in common beyond their wombs, yet the former Tarly is so desperate to ingratiate herself that she reveals more than their lack of closeness should allow. Her husband's leg is difficult to manage and she struggles in his company. There was a squire she had hoped to marry before these orders from the crown, and her father saw it as a great boon, a just reward for his unwavering support of the second conquest. Her husband is courteous, but distant.

Sansa thinks she is speaking of another Lord Tyrell

\----------------------------

He had somehow found his way into the King's good graces, his mild manners perhaps a temper for all that Targaryen fire. Truth be told, Willas finds that he might like the man, but there is something between them that he cannot quite move past or place. But still, he keeps the King's company, his head may well depend on it if this Targaryen monarch proves as changeable as the last.

After a night of drinking, celebrating their respective announcements (he is going to be a father; if he cannot love his Lady he thinks he can love his child) the dragon's tongue loosens. Sansa is icy but dutiful, he laments. He had always dreamed of the whirlwind romance of the stories, and whilst his wife is beautiful she is by no means the sweet, loving damsel he might have wanted for his Queen. She has walls as high as The Wall, that he has no hope to scale. He didn't want a political match, but Connington had advised it, lest half the Kingdoms split away from him. His wife is courteous, but distant.  
Willas thinks he is speaking of another Queen.

\----------------------------

She is five moons along, and it is Willas who saves her.

There was a chill in the morning air as she went for her morning exercise. Even after all these years, she is plagued by the terrors that the Lannisters bestowed upon her as gifts upon her betrothal and marriage. Her father's head, so kindly given by Joffrey as he graciously let his betrothal to a traitor's daughter stand. Her scars, draped over her as another would drape jewels. News of her brother and mother's death- Her lost betrothed did forget to get her and his uncle a wedding gift after all. Those days had haunted her every night since being forced back to her gilded cage, and so she excused herself from her chambers as early as propriety would allow.

There is a vine stretched across her usual path through the gardens, and she tumbles forward. Desperate to protect her babe, she throws her arm out in front of her, colliding with the cobbles with a sickening crunch and a searing pain from her wrist- but the babe, the babe is alright, she thinks. 

Her Queensguard are not with her, and she cannot help but weep. The pain throbs and ebbs and throbs again, tugging on her already weak mother's stomach and she accepts the possibility that her stomach may expel itself and-

"Your Grace?"

Without hesitation Lord Tyrell plants his cane securely on the ground, so that he may have enough leverage to help her up. His gloved touch is gentle, his voice that soft librarian's calm that she almost has to strain to hear. With some effort she is raised to her feet, and she appreciates the gesture. He does not leave her alone then, but walks her inside and out of the cold, taking her gently by her good arm. They take the endless flights to the Maester's Chambers, and rouse the old man from his early morning doze. He sits with her as she is examined and treated, staying even as her Queensguard, her husband arrives.

Aegon is more concerned with the babe, as to be expected, but she doesn't fail to notice the suspicious gleam in his not-indigo eyes. After all, why would a cripple go to such lengths to climb the treacherous steps for a woman not his wife?

\----------------------------

His wife is five moons along, yet a fiery haired vision fills his every waking moment.

They dine with the royal couple more often than is perhaps necessary, and sweet Talla thinks that this means they have become favourites. Indeed, her and Sansa chat amicably, a little more openly than they might under the watchful eyes of the court, but he finds himself hanging off of every word just to hear the Queen's soft, lightly lilting accent, as something has soured the talk between himself and Aegon.

He finds Her Grace in the library, and in hushed voices they recommend volumes to one another. They don't just share a love of dead kin, but also of history, of stories. Under Brienne's watchful eye he helps her with her sums, an area, she confesses with a slight flush to those porcelain cheeks, that she always struggled with.

He finds Her Grace in the gardens, sometimes with her Good-Aunt (she refused her nephew's hand because she was barren, preferring to wield power in the Small Council chamber, or so Talla's gossip goes) but often with her shadow, the Lady Arya. They pause on their way and talk flowers, this arrangement and that, which flowers go best with the reds and blacks that infect the court like a plague.

He finds Her Grace in Talla's chambers as they pour over fabrics and the competing designs for dresses. In a particularly good humour, Sansa asks which colour he would prefer on his lady wife, but he imagines a world where the Queen is Lady Tyrell and so picks a smoky blue, where red or yellow may have worked better with his actual wife's colouring. Talla doesn't seem to notice, ecstatic in the Queen's company if not in her husband's heart.

\----------------------------

She is seven moons along when they find themselves alone again.

It is the day of the month when she sends her ravens, to Rickon at Winterfell and Jon at the Wall, to little Sweetrobin and honourable Yohn Royce, to Uncle Edmure (but never to his lady wife) and finally, to Margaery. Talla is good company, but she finds herself feeling obligated to Margaery for those few sweet moons of comfort, and so she writes and writes and occasionally receives a reply. She hesitates, always hesitates, in passing the Highgarden missives to the maester. A girlish hope that one day she may see Willas alone up here. A girlish, treasonous hope.

"Who are you writing to, Your Grace?"

They are alone and she wonders what might have been.

"The Vale, the North, the Riverlands," she hesitates "your sister."

Willas gives a strange quirk of his lips, that she knows from the many meals the two couples take together is a smile.

"Mayhaps we should let the raven fly together?" He pulls a number of carefully sealed letters from his doublet as if to demonstrate his right to be here. A friendship with the Queen could be a dangerous thing, but then...

"Could you take my arm my lady? The stairs, they're steeper than I would like." he shrugs, embarrassed of his impotence. Or perhaps embarrassed for her? Perhaps this is a ploy.

She takes his arm, gripping the wrist gently. Since the fall she has looked for that extra support, and the weight of the babe catches her off balance. She can feel his racing pulse, and suppresses a blush. Her heart hammers in her throat, and she wishes she could swallow the foolish girl. 

"I read the book you recommended- The Anthropology of the Children, was it?"

"How did you find it? Admittedly after Princess Arianne's travels in the Stormlands it is sorely outdated."

"It was...interesting," she said after a considered moment, "it was a heavy read, to be sure, I'm more used to seeing stories of the Children, I never thought I'd encounter a writer who approaches them so...analytically, I suppose."

Willas shook his head with an amused smile, and she could not help but reciprocate, but the smiles fell as he did, misplacing his cane and slipping on a step.

She held him up, but only just, pressing him against the wall so that he might steady himself. She was closer than propriety allowed, and something lay thick in the air. She looked into his eyes, almost on a level with her own. A moment passed. Two. Their breathing quickened and she felt her heart might break, it was all so unfair.

They were near the top, did not have time to react as the maester opened the door. Their breathing, their closeness, the needless guilt in their eyes, she knew that he thought the worst. The old man retreated, and closed the door of the rookery to them.

"I'm sorry." She whispered with a lowered gaze, and she wanted nothing more than for him to cup her chin and raise her lips to his.

"I am as well, Sansa." his hand twitched awkwardly, she noted, as if he was restraining himself from some foolishness.

"In another life, mayhaps." she took a step back and gestured for his letters, she would see them delivered herself. As she started up the final few steps she heard, in that soft librarian's voice,

"To another life, then." 

She listened as his cane beat against the stone as he left her, alone.

\----------------------------

Talla is seven moons along when he realises that maesters are gossips.

Somehow it has spread about court that he and the Queen have been too friendly with one another. Traitors will attract traitors, after all, and the illusion of their beautifully happy monarchs has been shattered by one ill placed old man and an unfortunately handsome cripple. If he'd known how the talk would spread, he would have kissed Sansa on the stairs, at least then all of this wagging of sharp tongues wouldn't have been for naught. But that would be treason, and he would not bring that shadow down on what little remains of his family.

The Queen has taken to her rooms, she is due before the next turn of the moon.

He dreams that night of a direwolf drowning in blood as flammable as oil, drowning in the embrace of the twisted vines of a rose. He doesn't need a maegi to know what it means.

\----------------------------

Aegon places too much stock in court gossip, but she must admit he is right.

"I want them gone from court, immediately-" his rage is terrible to behold she thinks, and she is glad that she does not take the brunt of it. The furniture on the other hand, his favourite cyvasse board, the chair, her dressing mirror... "-Are you sure you didn't do anything?" she refuses to dignify that last part with a response.

"I can pass on word that they are no longer welcome at court Your Grace. They will be in Highgarden before the babe comes."

She keeps her voice calm, but her heart breaks. At least she will have a child to balm the wound.

\----------------------------

The rumours finally reach Talla, and her silence tells him everything.

"We have been asked to leave court, My Lady. It would be good for the babe to be born in Highgarden, I think."

He keeps his voice steady, and he can't help but wonder what might have been. At least he will have a child to ease the pain.


End file.
